


The Second Kinslaying.

by hennethgalad



Series: Concerning Dior. [13]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Second Kinslaying., fall of Menegroth.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-22
Updated: 2018-02-22
Packaged: 2019-03-22 13:07:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13764828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hennethgalad/pseuds/hennethgalad
Summary: the sons of Fëanor attack Menegroth.





	The Second Kinslaying.

 

 

 

   The seige of Menegroth was in its second month. After the first exchanges of heralds, there had been no word from the sons of Fëanor, save their blank demand for the Silmaril.  
Cirion, the lieutenant of Baranthôl, the commander of the armies of Doriath, looked at the Silmaril as it shone at the throat of beautiful Dior, son of Lúthien and of Beren the Mortal. His heart was aching with the love he had once thought devoted entirely to Lúthien, who had smiled upon him, as she departed Menegroth for the last time with her strange Mortal husband.

   "Guard my child, Cirion, if you care for me as you say you do, for part of me will live on in him, and bring hope to all."

   Cirion sometimes thought he could see her, as through the leaves of the forest, smiling at him in the golden radiance of the beauty of her son, lit from within by the spirit of the Maia, and from without by the glorious jewel filled with Light.  
   He gritted his teeth; for though Lúthien had departed the world, he would honour her memory, and guard her dearest one with his life. And indeed, for the sake of Dior himself, whose warmth and kindness had brought something sweeter to Menegroth than treasure; a happiness that could not be doubted, which came from his own joy in the love of his wife and children.

   Cirion smiled briefly as a cherished memory came to him, of Nimloth conferring quietly with the sombre Baranthôl, while the shining eyes of Dior had looked around as though in the midst of grief the truth had at last reached him. That he himself, the son of a Mortal man, was now Eluchíl no longer, but Lord himself, Lord of the Thousand Caverns, and of all Doriath. Dior had turned his glowing eyes to Cirion, then frowned, and bitten his lip. With an almost furtive glance at his wife, he had drawn Cirion into an alcove.

  
   "Cirion, my old friend. My mother spoke warmly of you, who were trained by Beleg Cúthalion himself, and declared you the most trusted of all her people." They had smiled together, then, Cirion finding the tears stand in his eyes, though none fell, and Dior watched the red flush of pride in the cheeks of the lieutenant.

   "All loved your mother, my lord, but some of us... for some it was all our love..."  
   Dior gripped the arm of Cirion in a gesture of warm affection.

   "I am glad, and I envy you the long years you had with her, hearing her song..."  
Cirion frowned.

  "Alas, my lord, that you should lose your mother while yet a child !"

  
   But even as the words left him, Cirion stepped back, agape with mortification, staring in dismay at the tall, beautiful lord before him; no puling child this, but a warrior, tried in battle and father of fine sons. But Dior smiled.

  
   "You speak only that which is true, my friend, I am merely a child in the reckoning of the Elves. But from my father I have inherited flesh with the vigour of the quick, and thus I find myself already a man, while those with whom I played as a child still idle in the gardens.  
   But Cirion, I am in truth young in years, and the wisdom of the Eldar is far beyond me yet. I shall need aid of every kind, for many years. Indeed, I can foresee no time at which I would not seek your thoughts on all my choices. Will you stand with me, Cirion ? As you stood with my mother ? Will you help me to complete my schooling, and save me from the follies of youth and ignorance ?

In return, I offer my protection and love; for Guruthnaur has been tempered now in the blood of our foes, and I do not doubt that he will feed again. I have no fear of battle, Cirion, it is the great and ancient city of Menegroth itself, and the rich culture of her people, that weakens my knees and stops my throat. How may one such as I, raised in quiet upon Tol Galen, hope to understand the ways of your people ?"

   Cirion had clapped a hand over his own mouth to silence his laughter, but hastily guarded his face as that of Dior closed down with affronted dignity. Cirion reached out a hand but did not lay it upon Dior, instead bowing gracefully, then smiling.

  
   "My lord, my dear lord, you forget the time you spent here, when you met the lady Nimloth. You are no stranger here, and Nimloth is not the only maiden, nor mighty warrior, to lose her heart to you.  
   You must know that your beauty is a matter of pride for all who call Menegroth home, and the songs reach far beyond our borders. You need have no fear for the loyalty of the Doriathrim, for your own sake, and for the memory of your dear mother, who shall be mourned for as long as the Eldar still sing."

   "I thank you Cirion, for your words of comfort. But I do not doubt the loyalty of the people, nor is there doubt as to my own capacity to learn. But the truth is that I know so very little of the manners and customs, of the alliances and feuds, of the fashions and modes of thought of Menegroth, that I fear I shall become a subject of songs rather of mockery than praise, and my very youth may cause strife and fear, as loyalty is seen to overmaster wisdom."

  
   "My lord, I am here, I will do anything, answer any question, at any time. But you judge us harshly if you believe that we could mock you for your youth, or ourselves for following you. The mood is rather that of unease at the loss of Elwë Thingol, and more than even our lord, the passing of Melian the Maia has left us open to the Enemy in a manner than many have simply never known. But there are also many here who crossed the mountains in the Time of the Stars, and they are awakening from their long quiet to smell the blood of orcs in the wind.  
   Guruthnaur seems to such as those, and to soldiers such as I, to be the banner for all to rally behind, for we fear that the time of courtly ritual and subtle gameplay is ended for Menegroth. The Shadow grows and spreads from the North, Nargothrond has fallen, the sons of Fëanor are scattered and hidden Gondolin may be lost.  
   It may be that here in Menegroth we stand as the last city of the Elves, and you are our undisputed lord. It is not the songs of Elves nor the scheming of courtiers that we need; what our people truly need from our lord is the strength to unite us against the Enemy and lead us to victory with all the vigour of Mortal flesh."

   Dior was silent for a moment, Cirion watched the busy mind, flickering in the beautiful eyes. He felt his heart stabbed anew, realising the long years of torment that lay ahead of him, as the friend and loyal follower of one to whom his heart was so utterly devoted, without the faintest whisper of hope that his adoration could ever be returned.  
   For an instant he considered flight, escaping the tyranny of love to Sirion, or West to the Havens of Círdan; but the thought of living in the world while Dior walked alive under the sun, beyond hope of sight, was intolerable, a terrible searing agony that could not be endured even in thought. His purpose was set, he would do his duty, and endure the lesser torment of standing beside beautiful Dior, while all the love of Dior was given to fair Nimloth, and their three charming children.

   But it was not merely the beauty of the face and form of Dior that Cirion loved, for Cirion had gifts of vision, though not of foresight, and could perceive somewhat of the spirit of the Maia Melian. He missed the Light that had filled the forest, shining from every leaf, sparkling in the ferns and glowing even amidst the tiny fronds of moss that carpeted the glades of Neldoreth.  
   In Lúthien the Light had been paler, not the rich green radiance of Melian, but shimmering instead as golden as moonlight on clear water, or as nacreous as the gleaming of snow. But in Dior the Light was veiled, as though Arien sailed behind the low clouds of dusk, casting faint shadows that stretched long between the trees.  
   Cirion knew that he would love Dior were he a lowly groom or porter, for the joy in his heart, for the delight of his company and the laughter of his children. Moreover, he would love Dior were his face scarred as so many of the survivors of the Dwarven attack had been, or merely as plain as that of Baranthôl. The startling, enthralling beauty of the lovely creature at the head of the table served only to heighten the ferocity of the devotion of Cirion.

 

   The hearts of all had been hardened by the invasion. The slaughter of their scouts and the massacres of those caught between the Fëanorians and their goal had added fury to their determination. Cirion knew that they would fight to the last Elf rather than give a cup of water to the murderers. The purpose of the council of war seemed to be rather to make certain that their will was set, than to organise their troops. Indeed, there was naught to be done. The sons of Fëanor could not enter, the people of Menegroth could not leave; the gate was shut.

 

 

   The council continued, Cirion strove to heed the words of all, lest by his inattention he cause the death of others. Baranthôl was speaking of the mustering of weapons; the fletchers were short of feathers, at a loss without the wide forest to glean. But Nimloth suggested the crafters, the hatters and costumiers, who also used feathers, and an aide was sent running.  
   Dior frowned and rubbed his forehead. His youth showed most, thought Cirion fondly, in his restlessness; he was forever in motion, toying with quill and parchment, shifting in his seat, tapping his long fingers on the table and looking from face to face as though deep down he was wondering which could grant him permission to leave, to run freely in the forest, with the laughing Nimloth beside him, singing the endless chants of the Onodrim.

   An aide entered and stooped over the shoulder of Baranthôl, whispering urgently. Cirion watched curiously as the face of Baranthôl grew paler. Baranthôl rose half from her seat, her white-knuckled hands gripping the table and the back of her chair. Dior, shining Dior, turned to her in concern and fell silent. Nimloth sat back in her chair, her eyelids half closed, as though trying not to see what was before them. Baranthôl took a deep breath.

  
   "My lord, the enemy... the Fëanorians have blocked up the outflow. The water is rising in the lower levels. Shall I order our people to begin moving everything up to the..."

   Dior stood, his face stern as Manwë commanding a storm, and looked around the table. His glowing eyes paused on Cirion and favoured him with a slight smile. Cirion, taken aback by the swift, intent focus that had come upon Dior, seeing him for the first time not as prince but as king, sat up straighter in his seat, filled with pride and the desire for great deeds and glory.  
   The time had come for action, after the dreadful time of waiting, trapped like prey, while the hostile forces, out of bowshot, danced and sang in the forest glades so dear to the folk of Menegroth. The rage filled them all; the dreadful Maedhros, red-handed from the murder of their kin in Alqualondë, was at their gate with his army, trying to drown them like rats. They would resist, they must. They would ride out, at last, and face the cursed ones, and cleanse the land of their foul, cowardly greed.

   Dior spoke for a few moments, but Cirion did not hear, the exaltation of battle was upon him, he saw only the pride and beauty of the son of Lúthien, and the majesty of the grandson of Elu Thingol, bearing the Nauglamir, shining at last as brightly as the Silmaril he bore.  
   Cirion had once asked Gildor Inglorion, who had lived in Valinor, if there were any Elves there as beautiful as Dior. Gildor, the staid, sensible Gildor, had looked at Cirion with a strange expression.

  
   "When he bears the Silmaril, and shines with his own light, there are few, even among the Maia, who can match his beauty. It breaks my heart, and my heart's love belongs all to my dead lord, Finrod Felagund."

  
   "Dior is more beautiful than Finrod Felagund ?"

  
   "Aye, and his sister too. Oh Cirion, you have seen Melian, she was held one of the fairest of the Maia, yet Dior is as you see him.  
   I sometimes wonder if he is too beautiful for Middle-earth, and whether even the Valar vie to bring him within their own domain..."

 

   Baranthôl rose to her feet and put her hand to her breast, Cirion jumped up beside her and tore his eyes from Dior.

  
   "My lord, I shall begin the evacuation at once. The engineers say that they can reach the surface in three days. As you know, my lord, we have had plans and preparations in train for many years. But I had never imagined that the army at our gates would be Elven."

  
   "They may once have been Elves, Baranthôl, but their deeds are those of orcs. They do the work of the true Enemy."

  
   "My lord." Baranthôl paused while the others at the table, including Cirion, murmured their agreement. "The sortie is ready to ride out at your will, my lord." This time the murmuring was louder. "And we shall at last have the chance to smite our foes, and to provide a diversion while our children and kin escape to the Havens of Sirion."  
   They cheered then, and Dior smiled with tears in his eyes.

   "My dear friends, you do not fight for me, you fight for your lives, and for the lives of those you love. We are trapped, and almost surrounded. Only the narrow passage of the secret vale is yet secure. We must draw the enemy to our spears and swords, and focus all their minds upon the gate, while Menegroth is emptied of those who cannot fight. My own spear Guruthnaur longs to shine in battle again, as do I.  
   I have but one wish of you all; that your arrows be aimed chiefly at the sons of Fëanor, for those who follow them may feel bound in loyalty to aid them even in murder, and many may yet be saved. But for those who should be their leaders, their exemplars and their standard-setters, there can be no mercy this side of the Halls of Mandos.  
   

   They are at our gate, my friends, their hands are red with the blood of our kin for the second time. Hunt them down. Seek them out on the field of battle and slay them. The waters rise beneath our feet. They have dammed the stream, they wish to drown us in our homes, but when the silver trumpets sound, we shall have our chance, and may the mighty fists of Tulkas inspire us all to victory and the glory that awaits us, shining in the eyes of those we love, our children and our kin."

 

 

 

 

   Cirion, commanding the rear, watched the battle. The banners and colours of the sons of Fëanor were known to all, though none of the Elves of Doriath had ever laid eyes upon them, save Daeron, who was lost, and Mablung, slain by the Dwarves. Cirion itched for action, struggling to calm his breathing, and the furious beating of his heart. They had sung as the great gates were opened, riding forth as though to joy, singing of the power of the Maia, calling forth her spirit to aid them in their dire need.  
  
   "The nightingales each knew her name  
   Her daughter's son now bears the flame  
   May her Light shine on sword and spear  
   And fill our trembling foes with fear"

   

   But their foes did not tremble, greeting them with a deadly flight of arrows that whirred through the air like glittering rain borne on a storm of winter, and a battle cry in the forbidden tongue that few of the Doriathrim had ever heard spoken. Cirion narrowed his eyes, wishing that he too were an archer, impatient to strike at the enemy.  
   A strange thud, and choking sound drew his eye. He saw his neighbour, a friend since their distant childhood in the years of starlight, fall with a Fëanorian arrow in the throat. Cirion gasped as the grief stabbed his heart, and gripped the hilt of his sword, scarcely feeling his nails cut into the palms of his hands. The anguish and rage surged through him as furious tears spilled from his eyes.

   The terrible waste of battle came to him for the first time; he thought of the parents and their labour of Begetting and the care and worry of raising their child, he thought of his friend's mother, who had been kind to them as children, who had made them pastries with sweet apricots, succulent, flaking and crumbling in the mouth... He thought of the sword his friend had made, and the many hours spent honing and polishing the blade, and the owl feathers forming the crest, which his friend had gathered for years, and carefully preserved for just this moment. This moment...  
   It was like a foul creation of the Enemy, a hideous mockery of the marriage-feast, made of commitment and patience and constant preparation, in anticipation of a long-awaited meeting. But instead of the flourishing of love, there was only the pain and squalor of death.  
   The laughter of the Enemy seemed to fill their ears, as Elf drew weapon upon Elf, and cut and stabbed and pierced, spilling the red blood of their kin upon the land once blessed by Melian, bringing pain, mutilation and death as evil thralls of the real Enemy, Morgoth Bauglir.  
  
   Cirion watched through his tears; the air filled with flights, waves of arrows, surging this way and that like a stormy sea. He saw Curufin fall with several arrows waving their feathers, a fell plumage, embedded in red flowers of blood where his face had been. The craftiest of Elves could not outsmart the point of the arrow.  
   Dior, leading the charge, brandishing Guruthnaur like a willow wand, fought through the ranks towards Celegorm, whom he loathed. Cirion thought of the capture of Lúthien, held prisoner by Celegorm, who would have raped her but for the virtue of Huan, the hound of Oromë. Cirion clenched his fists at the thought of the beautiful face of Lúthien distorted with fear and anger, alone and captive in the House of Celegorm, weeping with helpless fury. He urged Dior on, willing him to strike at the embittered face. Dior seemed to plough a furrow through the foe, as they fell aside from the fiery point of Guruthnaur.  
   The spirit of his Maia grandmother shone in him, a green flicker of flame streamed from the red-gold tip of the spear, and a crown of green flame flickered at his brow. The Noldor who faced him could perceive the presence of the Maia more clearly than those who had not dwelt beneath the Trees, and they flinched before the wrath and power of Dior son of Lúthien.

   Celegorm watched with growing concern, his face draining of colour, as the hopelessness of the war for the Silmarils became suddenly clear to him. The power of the Maia, living on in her grandson Dior, was enough to bring fear to his finest troops, and, he admitted, to himself. The power of the Maia...  
   The warning of the Valar, that no victory could be had against a Vala, even one as degraded as Morgoth, became known to him as though for the first time. Celegorm understood himself as within the world, an insect beside the great storm of power within Morgoth, unassailable by any of the Children of Ilúvatar. He could scarcely restrain himself from smiting own his brow in despair.

   And Dior, with death shining in his lovely eyes, was drawing nearer.

   Amid the stench, the screaming roar of battle, the dreadful suck of spear wrenched from limb, or gut, or face, and the clangour of metal upon metal, like the hellish forges of Thangorodrim, Cirion that felt he could read the very thoughts of Celegorm, seeing the beauty of Lúthien reborn in the face of her son. The guilt, regret, and a wistful longing flickered across the once-fair face of Celegorm; it could have been his own son, had Lúthien not fled him, riding out like the wrath of the Valar...

   But no such musings distracted the furious purpose of Dior, defending his people, fighting with the very gates of his house at his back. He slew the last guard and for a moment paused before Celegorm, his broad shoulders squared, the plume of his helmet red against his grey-green cloak. In his hand Guruthnaur was still for a moment as the eyes of the foes met in the field, and Celegorm hesitated.  
   

   Silence seemed to spread around them for a moment as the soldiers of Celegorm, fighting their way through to the side of their lord, held their breath.  
   Would Celegorm strike ?  
Cirion glanced over to Oak Hill, where Maedhros sat with Maglor, directing the advance. Maedhros rose up in his stirrups, Cirion could see the anxiety, turning to fear in the pale face of the enemy.  
   But Dior did not hesitate, Guruthnaur stabbed upwards without warning, snakelike, scarcely visible save as a blur on the eyes, and the red blood gouted forth from the throat of Celegorm, a dark mockery of the gem he had pursued with murder in his heart.  
   The soldiers of the enemy shouted and yelled, but the anguished cry of Maedhros cut through them all. The air filled with arrows and Dior jerked backwards, then slid like a fallen puppet, dead.

   Cirion felt disbelief, at the strange sight of the poised and elegant Dior sagging and sliding to the ground. The pity and grief that such indignity could be visited upon Dior seemed worse than the fact of his death, the shabby ordinariness of the corpse could have nothing to do with Dior, shining Dior, the treasure of Arda, the most beautiful of all the Children of Ilúvatar.  
   Cirion felt his heart cease in its beating, the anguish of his spirit was so great that he reached for the arrow in his own chest, but none had reached them. At the front, Baranthôl, pale and frowning, looked back to Cirion, as the cries of the Doriathrim turned to the grim silence of implacable wrath. The commander pointed to Cirion and made the gesture for 'guard the withdrawal'. Cirion clenched his fist to his chest, nodded respectfully and met the tired eyes of Baranthôl. They gazed at each other for a long moment, as though to bid farewell, for they had ridden together since before the rise of Arien and knew each other’s mind. Baranthôl nodded slowly and gestured dismissal with her eyes, then smiled reluctantly for an instant.  
Cirion, choked with sorrow, turned his horse carefully in the narrow lane between the riders and galloped back across the bridge, as the tears began to spill from his eyes once more.

  
   

 

   Nimloth stood guard in the Hall with the champions of the heavy infantry, who had survived Sarn Athrad and the carnage of the Dwarven invasion. Her face was tense and watchful, the bow in her hand gripped tightly. Cirion had long admired the tall, serene Nimloth, who had ignored the social circles of her noble family to devote herself to the study of the Onodrim, and the life of the forest. She had rarely been seen in the halls of Thingol, travelling for years with the Onodrim, learning their chants, forgetting all her kin, until Dior had stunned the whole of Menegroth with his radiant beauty, calling Nimloth back from the wild to stand at his side.  
   Cirion doubted that any who lived could have refused the beauty of Dior, and choked afresh. He hesitated in the entrance to the Hall, wishing there were some way that he could make it not true, make the death of Dior not have happened, that he not have to be the one to break the news to Nimloth, break the heart of Nimloth...  
   He gritted his teeth, it had not been Cirion of Menegroth who had struck the fatal blow. The army of Maedhros and his brothers were at their gates, murdering all in their path, again.

   He stepped forwards and met the eyes of Nimloth, and watched the colour fade from her face. She took a deep breath, then gripped the shoulder of her lieutenant.

  
   "My lady Nimloth. It grieves me beyond words to tell you that Dior, Lord of Menegroth, has been slain."

  
   There was a hiss of breath from the soldiers, and a murmur of shocked fury. But Nimloth swallowed and looked steadily at Cirion.

  
   "I thank you Cirion. I see your tears, and I am grateful for them. If I live, I know that the rest of my life will be filled with them. But now it is the time to avenge his death.  
In honour of their father, I charge you to hasten after my children, and guard them. If it is my fate to survive, I shall join you at the Havens of Sirion. Farewell, my friend, stars shine upon you ! "  
   Cirion felt the broken pieces of his heart crushed underfoot. He could see death in the eyes of Nimloth. His stunned mind scrabbled desperately for something to say, he longed to save her, she was so fair, so kind, so beloved, even trees loved her; it was unendurable that she should go out through the gate, into the mouth of carnage. He felt the tears burst forth, he opened his mouth and lifted his hands in a gesture of denial, but Nimloth pressed her white lips together, and Cirion sighed, and dropped his hands. He bowed his head.

  
   "My lady, it shall be as you wish. I... Farewell."

 

   Cirion, out of sight on the stairs, wiped the tears from his eyes and took a hold of himself. In the midst of the dreadful noise of slaughter, a new life was beginning for him, and for many others, if they managed to escape the beseiging army.  
   He took a deep breath, and straightened his back; Nimloth was right, it was a time for deeds, not grief. The time of weeping would be long enough. He gritted his teeth and ran up the endless stairs, now emptied of Elf and bird, and all singing ended. Cirion paused, glancing around as if to fix the sight in memory, knowing in his heart that he at least would not return. He had helped to dig the Thousand Caves, he had dwelt for most of his life in the grace of Melian, singing in the glades with family and friends, knowing little of grief and nothing of the changes in the world beyond Doriath.  
   The golden lanterns hung serenely from wall and carven roof, the richly woven hangings swayed gently, gleaming with reflected light, bringing a kind of life to the empty hall. Cirion swallowed, gulping back fresh tears; all the toil, all the care that had gone into the gathering of fibres, the spinning of yarn, the vision and conception, the building of looms, the weaving, the embroidery, all to be abandoned in a moment of mindless rage.  
   The fury gripped him again, a fallen cloak lay crumpled on the floor, shocking in the carefully tended halls of Menegroth, it lay abandoned, in disarray, and the memory of the sight of the ruin of Dior, all life and purpose fled, sliding to the ground, falling back into the dust... Cirion let out a howling snarl of grief and rage, his hands grasping for his weapon, all his mind filled with the black thirst for vengeance.

  But the spirit of Lúthien whispered softly to him. "Guard my children..." and her face changed to that of Nimloth, uttering those same words. Cirion sighed and let the anger loose, counting his breath, until he felt himself calm enough to consider his course.

 

   The future spread before him, dark with the Shadow of the Enemy, and all his puppets, but lit yet by Sun and Moon, gifts of the Valar to all the creatures of Middle-earth. He could not despair, he could not conceive that the Valar would permit one of their kind to destroy Arda. He must go on, to see the fight through, or if he were proved wrong, to come beyond hope and stand before the Valar, and ask accusingly "Why ?"  
  
   But his duty was clear, regardless of his desire for revenge he must go on. He forced himself not to turn, remembering his orders, and realising with a fell smile that not only could he obey them, but that it was all too likely that the enemy would be waiting in ambush and that he would yet have his chance for vengeance.  
   Cirion began to run, pounding down the West Hall, into the corridor that led to the newly opened passage out into the forest. The corridor seemed to grow longer as he ran, stretching out before him and collapsing back into a narrow pinprick of light. Sick and dizzy, he paused to suck in great heaving breaths, and wipe from his face the still-falling tears, wishing he could lay care aside and follow the valiant Nimloth to slay and be slain before the gates of his home. But he thought of those who had gone before, and the memories they carried, of the rich and purposeful lives of the slain, who must be honoured and cherished in the hearts and songs of those who yet lived, to sing their glory until death took them or the world ended.

   He straightened his back again and marched swiftly towards the rustling sigh of the long line of fleeing Elves, almost silent as they listened to the dreadful echoes of the screaming thunder of battle at the gate, resounding through the carven halls of Menegroth. Cirion hurried to the front, where a guard was directing people through the narrow crack that the engineers had opened in the low cliff, and with a swift salute was ushered through, out into the Forest of Region.

   The sound of the battle echoed strangely, like a distant storm, the great din blocked by the heights between them, and scattered by the forest. The winter trees were bare, the tapestry of branch and twig above their heads revealed the dull grey cloud, spread like a choking blanket across all the sky. The air was damp and cold; not the sharp cold of frost, but the insidious cold that lulls the unwary, creeping imperceptibly through cloak and garment, soaking into the flesh and chilling the bones of the unsuspecting. The fleeing Elves would face a long march before any fire could be lit, for not only were the sons of Fëanor at their back, but the slaughter of their scouts had deprived them of all knowledge of the movements of the real Enemy, and until the new scouts returned, they marched blindly into the cold, wet forest. But the hidden Sun passed noon, and the swift fall of night in Winter drew near.  
   Cirion hastened forwards past the now silent Elves who were picking aside every leaf in their path, still clearing the way for those who waited behind them.  
   Silently calling on the spirit of Beleg Cúthalion to aid him, and remembering the thrilling years he had spent on expeditions at the side of the greatest of scouts, Cirion ran lightly through the trees, as those ahead of him, alerted by the soldiers guarding the escape, moved aside to let the lieutenant pass.

 

 

   Finally, as they rested in a clearing, Cirion came upon Gildor Inglorion, and the children of Dior. The child Elwing, hurried from her crib in the dark of night, slept peacefully, but the twins looked up at him with round anxious eyes. Gildor stood with a smile, but there was that in the expression of Cirion that made Gildor recoil, his face becoming grey and still.   Helin rose and put her arms around the boys, and looked at Cirion with a forced smile.

   "How is it with Dior ?"  
   Cirion shook his head slowly. Gildor turned away, his fists clenched, and made a terrible sound in his throat, a choking snarl. Helin gripped the shoulders of the twins.

  
   "Dead ? My lovely Dior ?" she whispered, and slowly raised her hands to cover her mouth.  
   Several things happened at once. Elwing, as though sensing the mood, began to wail. All eyes turned to the small, pink-faced bundle. The shocked guards were rising to their feet, Cirion and Gildor turned to aid the weeping Helin, and the twins, of one mind in this as in everything, glanced at each other and darted away through the trees, calling "Father !" in their soft, high voices.

   Cirion, seeing his task failing before it had begun, shouted an order to the guards, who raced into the forest after the sons of Dior and vanished among the trees. Gildor had an arm around Helin, who was startled from her tears, and looking around in horror.

  
   "The twins ? Where are the twins ?"  
Gildor smiled reassuringly.

  
   "Do not fear, the guards hurried after them, they cannot outrun the finest troops of Menegroth."  
Helin smiled reluctantly, and looked apologetically at Cirion.

  
   "You must think me weak and foolish, Cirion."

   "I cannot say, my lady, I can see little through my own tears."

   But Gildor was frowning.  
   "Where is my lady Nimloth ? Does she follow ?"  
   Cirion dropped his head, seeing still the exaltation of grief in the hitherto serene eyes. The anguish at the sight of her living death crushed his heart anew, as though all that could be seen of her, all that remained, was the light of her spirit, shining in the darkness of his memory. He looked up at Gildor.

  
   "She leads the heavy infantry, thirsty for the slaughter. She will pass through the gate, into the battle. Unless our depleted forces can utterly crush the Fëanorians, she will not return. She learned of the slaying of Dior, and a fell mood overcame her. I fear that she will pass through the gate in search of death as much as vengeance, for she charged me with the care of her children. Of his children..." The tears, running unheeded down the fair face of Cirion, choked him, and he buried his face in his hands "I have already failed..." he whispered, gulping with sobs.  
   Gildor sighed but stepped forwards and laid a hand on the shoulder of Cirion, glancing towards the silent forest, wondering why he could hear no calls as the guards sought the truant twins.

  
   "Cirion, you had not taken up your charge, it is I who am to blame, I too was charged by Nimloth, it is from my care that they have fled, and if our people are unable to find two small children, then all their scoutcraft will not avail to take us safely to the Havens."  
  
   Cirion sighed, but smiled gratefully at Gildor. Helin was staring anxiously at the shadowy green wall of trailing thorn and ivy through which the twins had run. The air was still, the birds silent, the sound of battle on the far side of the hill as remote as a distant storm. They waited as dusk fell, heavy with grief, and stretched with fear, until Gildor frowned and ordered another four guards to find out what had become of the first search party, but the second troop soon fell silent, and did not return.  
   

   The Elves filed past the clearing in the silence of respect and grief, and the friends of Dior watched as a third group of soldiers looked doubtfully at each other, and then marched into the trees to search not only for the sons of Dior, but also for their comrades, swallowed up, seemingly, by the now-dark forest.

   Within moments a soldier raced back into the clearing.  
"My lord Cirion sir, the forest is bristling with bow and blade, the enemy is upon us, the bodies of our comrades lie pierced and bleeding, dead among the trees. Of the sons of Dior..." the soldier paused, and lowered his eyes for a moment, then swallowed and looked up again, his face dragged down by the unseen hands of anguish. "The path they took is clear, sir, or was, for now it is strewn with our slain comrades, and vanishes into the line of the enemy. They are taken, sir, the enemy has them."

  
   Cirion looked in horror at Gildor, but to his astonishment, Gildor sighed with relief.

  
   "Taken ? That is well. The deeds of the sons of Fëanor may be evil, but they are evil only for the purpose of acquiring the Silmaril. They will hold the twins as hostage, and since we have the Silmaril, we can use it to buy their freedom."

   Cirion looked at Gildor in astonishment.

   "Here ? You have it here ?"

 

 

   Dark thoughts ran through the mind of Cirion, he cursed the Fëanorians and their blighted gem...  
   The sons of Fëanor had been in many battles, with all their ruthless army, filled even now with the power of the Light of the Trees. They would vanquish the grieving remnants of Doriath, and rage with dreadful slaughter through the Thousand Caves, seeking in vain the treasure that could never be theirs.

   For Cirion agreed with those who described the Fëanorians as orcs; become so, made so by their own foul deeds, and he knew that the Light which lived, shining yet in the Silmaril, would spurn their bloodied hands and reject them utterly.

 

 

 

 


End file.
